


The way home

by MidLifeLez



Category: Holby City
Genre: Berena Appreciation Week, F/F, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Honestly probably too sweet but I don't care, Reunions, Sweet, sickly sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:36:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidLifeLez/pseuds/MidLifeLez
Summary: Written for Berena Appreciation Week Day 7, prompt: reunion.





	The way home

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure what else to do.” Serena stood awkwardly on the doorstep, not quite looking Bernie in the eye. It was raining, and the drops splatted loudly on the flat leaves of ivy growing around Bernie’s front door. A moth danced around the porch light, dodging the water as best it could.

“Not at all,” Bernie said quietly, stepping aside to let Serena in. “Of course you should’ve come here.” She closed the door and stood, arms folded lightly across her chest, as Serena looked around. She’d never been ‘here’ before: the house Bernie had bought after leaving Holby.

“It’s really lovely,” Serena said eventually. She turned to Bernie. “Very you.” Bernie inhaled sharply; Serena was the only person in the world who would say that and mean it – everyone else in her life had called it ‘busy’, had said the pictures and fabrics and knick-knacks didn’t fit at all with their ideas of the Major. Only Serena would know Bernie well enough to know that the space she had created for herself, at the time she had created it, would be filled this way: on every surface a memory. A memory or a wish.

“Aha, well, it’s, uh, it’s home, anyway.” Bernie gestured towards the kitchen. “Cup of tea? You must be parched after all those hours on the road.”

 

*

 

Serena had called her just after 11pm, shouting over the sound of the engine and the rain and the rapid swish of windscreen wipers; she had been stuck in traffic for most of the evening and had no chance of making it as far as Holby tonight, and didn’t really fancy trying in this filthy weather. It had been a long time, she knew, and it was late, but if she could just get a few hours’ sleep at Bernie’s, she was only about 25 minutes away, according to the sat nav… At this point, Bernie had interrupted her – “Serena”, she had said, and Serena could visualise Bernie’s hand patting the air in front of her as she said it, even now – “it’s fine. I’ll see you in a bit.”

After two years, 25 minutes. After two years a rush, a reunion unplanned. Serena chewed her bottom lip as she drove, throwing glances at the rear view mirror. Did she look as anxious as she felt? She looked different, that much she knew, and it suddenly struck her that Bernie too might be different, that in fact the image of her on the telephone, one that had seemed so vivid to Serena just moments ago, might be utterly wrong these days. Not for the first time, the notion of Bernie as a memory stung her eyes and burned the back of her throat. She coughed. _In 300 yards, you have reached your destination._

Bernie laid the phone back in its cradle and hugged her knees. The telly was on mute and she sat and stared, unseeing, at the silent pictures for a while. This house, her home, had never been a Serena-free zone – no corner of her life could be that, really – but it had been her refuge, her sanctuary, whenever the edges of the rest of the world became too sharp. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed deeply, and opened them again. It wasn’t how she’d planning on seeing Serena again, but then, she had stopped imagining it a long time ago. So this was how it was going to happen: late on a Monday night, in her pyjamas. The beam from a set of headlights burst through the blinds.

 

*

 

“Safe to say that’s the last time I bother with a weekend conference.” Serena’s tone was artificially light, each of them silently nursing a lump in the throat as they looked at one another across the kitchen table. Each was looking at the love of her life and a stranger all at the same time, and the pain they had each known was coming was, quite impossibly, a thousand times worse than either of them had imagined.

Bernie gave a small smile. “I don’t really bother with them either way, these days,” she said, shaking her head just a fraction, to move a chunk of fringe from her eye. Her hair was slightly shorter than it had been two years ago, Serena thought, but just as messy, her fringe still falling untamed around her brow. She was still girlishly good looking. 

“No, I thought-“ Serena hesitated, ran her thumb over the handle of her mug. “I thought I hadn’t seen your name around.” She didn’t look up from the table. “I hope it’s not because of-“

“You must be really tired,” Bernie said, scraping her chair back and getting up. She put her mug in the sink and turned back towards Serena, each plastering on a smile for the other.

“Yes.” She was, it was no lie. She was bone tired, but she hated the thought of going to bed now, with so much still unsaid. Perhaps it wasn’t unsaid. Perhaps there was nothing to say. Perhaps Bernie didn’t want to hear it. Perhaps it was just too late in coming.

Bernie showed her to a room with a large double bed in it, a set of towels laid neatly on top. “The bathroom’s just across the hall,” she said, pointing to a door that was sat ajar. “I don’t know how early you need to be off tomorrow but I’m not working, so don’t worry that you’ll be getting in my way.”

They stood and looked at one another, Serena just inside and Bernie just outside the bedroom door. “You’re looking well, Serena,” Bernie said quietly, smiling; “I’m glad.” Serena smiled awkwardly in return, remembering now the intensity of being seen by Bernie Wolfe, a gaze that could make sunflowers grow in the shade. Bernie turned down the hall, mumbled over her shoulder, “G’night, Serena”, and switched off the light.

 

*

 

Morning crept into the bedroom too soon, the swathe of muslin that hung across the window doing nothing to stop the dawn light rousing Serena. She rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. Of course Bernie wouldn’t bother with proper curtains; the woman could sleep through a fireworks display. At least some things hadn’t changed. Serena found herself looking around the room, looking for clues as to what Bernie’s life was like now. There were photos of Cameron and Charlotte that looked fairly recent – they weren’t children, anyway, and Cam’s hair looked as it had done last time she’d seen him; she smiled at the thought of Bernie rebuilding her relationship with her children. There was a book of short stories by the side of the bed, on top of a well-thumbed edition of Orlando, and Serena smiled again at the thought of Bernie leaving them here for her guests, little bits of her that she didn’t mind sharing.

Once the sun had risen a bit and the clock was no longer showing such an offensively early hour, Serena got up and pulled her clothes back on, making her way to the kitchen as quietly as she could. She wasn’t sure where Bernie’s bedroom was, but there was no need to wake her just yet. If she smelled the coffee she might come through anyway. The kitchen was like everything else Serena had seen of the house: homely, more lived in than Bernie’s old flat, with more character. It felt as though Bernie had put every bit of love she had into this place, Serena thought, trying not to dwell on why there was so much of it going spare. She spooned the coffee – a strong blend with chocolate tones – into a chipped stoneware cafetiere and chose from a hotchpotch selection of mugs. At the back of the cupboard was one she recognised from the staff room at Holby. Everywhere a memory, or a wish.

The door to the living room stuck on its frame slightly and opened with a hefty thunk; there was a gasp of surprise from inside and Serena shrieked in turn. There was Bernie, huddled under a blanket on her sofa, hair up in tufts at the back. The blinds were still open and the sun cut right across that wall, but Bernie had been sleeping soundly until Serena nudged the door open. Recovering a little, they both laughed nervously as Serena took a seat at the far end of the sofa. Bernie grimaced as she sat up, instinctively reaching for her back.

“Bernie what are you doing on the sofa?” Serena asked, eyes full of concern as Bernie rolled her shoulders and turned her head one way and then the other, joints cracking loudly as she did. “I thought I was in a guest room; I’d never have put you out of your own bed if I’d known.” Bernie stretched her arms above her head, yawned loudly and looked out the window via a brief glimpse at Serena.

“It’s fine, really. This place is only one bedroom. You needed to sleep, you’ve still got all that driving to do.” She turned back to Serena and smiled for a moment. “Like I said, I’m not working today.”

“You won’t be doing anything today if your back’s still as bad as it was,” Serena replied, immediately regretting it. They sat in silence for a minute or two, each wrestling their uncertainty over how to continue the conversation now that the elephant in the room had trumpeted.

Eventually Bernie spoke: “It’s a bit better, don’t worry.” She was addressing her lap, in which her hands were clasped tightly together to keep them from fidgeting. “Did, did you make enough for more than one cup?” She blinked up at Serena, who handed over the mug she was holding and stood up.

“Back in a tick,” Serena said, halfway through the door. She poked her head back around again. “If that’s OK?”

Bernie closed her eyes for just a second. “Of course.”

 

*

 

Serena was halfway through her coffee before she said it. Slurped loudly first, just to make sure Bernie’s thoughts couldn’t be elsewhere. “I’m sorry, you know.”

Bernie lowered her mug to her lap and swallowed. “What?”

“I’m sorry you gave up on me – no, no, that’s not what I mean.” Serena rolled her eyes to the ceiling, her hand drifting up to her neck as she looked for the right words. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long that you had no choice. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when it all happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready to come back.”

She took a deep breath and looked across to her right; Bernie was looking intently at the floor, blinking back tears and, Serena could tell, chewing the insides of her mouth. She waited.

“I didn’t give up on you.” Bernie’s voice was almost a whisper, cracked and cracking. She cleared her throat, placed her mug on the floor and hugged her elbows. “I would never do that.

“I gave up on me. I gave up on me being enough for you to come back for. To come back to. After the trauma unit I, er…” In the pause, Serena reached out a hand but Bernie leaned away, shook her head, and drew her own knees up into a hug. “After the trauma unit closed I found I couldn’t… hope… anymore.” She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to her knees, hiding her face. “I’m so sorry, Serena.”

Without saying anything, Serena moved over and wrapped herself around Bernie’s crumpled form. She pressed Bernie’s head to her, rocking them both back and forth, planting kisses into the mess of blonde hair that now smelled of unfamiliar shampoo. “Oh Bernie,” she whispered, “don’t you dare apologise. Don’t you ever think…” She sank back against the cushions, taking Bernie with her, holding her tightly; Bernie let go of her knees and turned fully into the hug, grabbing fistfuls of Serena’s cardigan as she wept into Serena’s shoulder. They had both lost weight since they had last seen one another, and Serena fretted about how fragile Bernie felt in her arms; Bernie felt Serena’s collarbone against her cheek and wondered if she was really taking care of herself, if anyone was paying enough attention to notice if she wasn’t. They each tightened their grip. Sat here like this, it didn’t seem possible that they had survived apart for long enough to become strangers.

 

*

 

They woke up, dozy, at the same time, Serena instinctively rubbing Bernie’s sore back; Bernie leaned into her hand, a salve for a different kind of ache. “Mind if I take a look around?” Serena asked. Bernie nodded and watched Serena move around the living room, picking up bits and pieces, looking at pictures. “What does everyone else think of the kleptomaniac chic?” She winked, but there was another question in there too: _who is everyone else, these days?_ Bernie pulled a face.

“Oh, I’m quite the figure of fun,” she chuckled, before adding softly, her eyes steady on Serena’s own: “It’s just Cam and Charlotte, really. No one else.”

“Charlotte came ‘round, eventually?” Serena said. “That’s good news.”

“Yes, that cork – there, next shelf down – is from last Christmas. I saw them both.” Bernie pursed her lips as Serena picked up another cork, sat next to it; it was from Christmas 2016. Serena wondered if it was the one she had prised carefully out of the bottle before raising a toast to their newly joined families, or the one that Bernie had shot at the ceiling, spilling champagne all over Serena’s dining room. It was about the only thing she’d done to get a smile out of Elinor.

“You kept it,” Serena said, holding it up though she knew Bernie hadn’t turned away and knew exactly what she meant.

“I had it in my pocket for most of Christmas Day,” Bernie laughed. “Ended up taking it back to mine. After… uh…” 

“Bernie, it’s OK.”

“After the accident,” she said it hurriedly, as if to take the sting out of the words, “I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.”

“And does the same apply to _everything_ you’ve touched since then?” Serena teased, her eyes still sweeping the room. Bernie blushed.

“I realised I’d never really held on to anything, before,” she said, wishing she didn’t feel so sheepish, wishing she could be more certain that Serena was charmed rather than baffled. “Some things just seemed less… disposable, once you’d gone.”

Serena could feel her throat starting to tighten again and looked around for a further distraction; she caught sight of a small picture frame on the fireplace, its contents askew, and realised it was a postcard – _the_ postcard, the only postcard she had sent. She lifted the frame from the brickwork and gently opened the back.

“Serena?” Bernie was frowning.

“It’s wonky!” Serena said, as breezily as she could manage. “Honestly…”

“No, Serena…” As Bernie’s words came out, the frame slipped apart and two postcards dropped to the floor. The first a Parisian scene, with Serena’s handwriting all over the back; she read back her own words and sighed. The second she’d never seen before, a generic countryside view, all rolling green hills and freshly drenched trees – definitely British, then. It had been tucked beneath the first, hidden from view. She looked at Bernie before turning it over.

_Dear Serena, this is where we took that drive, one Sunday, do you remember? At least I think it is. That pub with the awful Ploughman’s, and we played the fruit machine like a couple of schoolchildren and you kissed me in front of everyone and told me off for blushing. I miss you, Serena. I hope you’re getting better, and I hope you’re on your way back to me. Bx_

Serena looked at Bernie, shock etched across her features. “I didn’t know where to send it,” Bernie mumbled, feeling her cheeks burning up. Serena crossed the small distance between them and pulled Bernie to her feet before delicately kissing the scorched pink streaks across Bernie’s cheekbones; they shared a look – what was it? Apprehension? Yes. Fear? Perhaps. Yearning? Almost certainly – and kissed for the first time in two years, eyes open for a few seconds so as to commit the moment to memory. Eventually the postcards slipped out of Serena’s hand and fluttered to the floor, where a stack of medical journals was topped by an advert for a consultant’s post at Holby. Everywhere a memory, or a wish.  

**Author's Note:**

> I realise this characterisation of Bernie's new home might feel way off to some people so I'm sorry, but once I'd thought about Bernie building a new life on her own I couldn't shake the idea of this tiny little cottage filled with mementos. Please be kind.


End file.
